


Plotting Out Intuition

by langsdelijn



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-01
Updated: 2015-04-01
Packaged: 2018-03-20 16:21:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3657018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/langsdelijn/pseuds/langsdelijn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nico gets an unscheduled visit from Lewis.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Plotting Out Intuition

‘You need to stop thinking so much.’

Nico looks up. Lewis hovers in his doorway, leant casually against the doorpost in his race suit, and exuding a confident presence that almost manages to project the idea that he belongs there, which he obviously does not. Nico does a mental triage session to determine which of the pressing questions in his mind he should address first, and, to be honest—

‘I said to stop thinking,’ Lewis says again, but it doesn’t actually make more sense this time, so whatever.

Nico makes a face, sighs, and goes back to his own preparations. If Lewis wants to stand there instead of do something useful, let him; he can tune him out if need be. The door closes, but any hope he has of that signalling Lewis giving up and leaving goes up in smoke when he can hear Lewis heave a sigh of his own, and it becomes clear he’s still in the room. 

Nico ignores him more intently. At least until he also hears the faint scratch of the lock being turned. ‘What?’ he asks, as his head snaps up in shock, because that is a definite step too far in whatever game Lewis thinks they’re playing.

‘I could hear you think from the other side of the garage, man,’ Lewis says, as if that explains everything, up to and including him locking both of them in to Nico’s motorhome, when it actually doesn’t explain anything at all. ‘You’re thinking too much.’

‘I’m working,’ he says. ‘I believe thinking sort of comes with the territory.’ 

After, he gives up and tries to re-immerse himself in his last review of the data and the figures and the lines, because the clock is ticking down to the start of the session, and he has no time for any of this—whatever it is.

Lewis yanks the sheaf of paper out of his hands. Nico stares up at him, half-seriously evaluating the possible consequences of retaliating, because, seriously, what the fuck. Lewis, though, is not even looking at him, is instead casting a dismissive glance at the papers, and then lets them fall to the floor behind him. ‘You don’t need these.’

_What the fuck._

‘Yes,’ Nico protests, motioning for them back with his hand, though both hand and demand remain unsurprisingly but disappointingly empty and unfulfilled. ‘I actually do.’

Lewis says nothing in reply, which is not unexpected at this point, and instead—instead—he lays first one leg onto the sofa, paralleled to his thigh to one side of him, then the other to the other, so that now he’s kneeling across and above Nico’s lap. 

Nico swallows. He can physically shove Lewis away, if he has to, which he probably does for a myriad of reasons not least of which still is the time constraints, but, even with him so immensely _there_ , he hesitates.

‘No,’ Lewis says. ‘You’re overthinking things, and it’s not helping you.’ 

Nico shakes his head, as if that can chase the sensation of Lewis slowly setting himself down on his lap from existence, because Lewis is plainly and blatantly wrong about this. ‘I’m not you,’ he says, unable to keep any hint of bitterness out of his voice, again with a shake of his head. ‘I do need this; I can’t just _know_.’

Lewis rolls his eyes. ‘I don’t, either, you know that’s not how this works. But you can’t reason your way to all the answers, and you must know that, too. You have to trust yourself and your instincts, man, not just be locked up inside your own head.’ 

‘I—’ he begins, but he has no idea on where to begin to address this litany of admonishments, or of what his responses to it should be, so he stops talking. He wonders if he should nod, or shake his head, or finally tell Lewis to fuck off and leave him alone.

‘Tell me what you’re thinking now,’ Lewis demands, and Nico can do no more than stare, because Lewis looms equally large in his mind as he does in his field of vision.

And then, in the span of a blink, Lewis has gone from sat in his lap to knelt on the floor between his legs, which, um, wow. Yes. Wow.

‘Nico, stop thinking,’ Lewis says again.

He must underestimate the ease with which the picture he presents down there short-circuits Nico’s higher thought processes, to say that. As if he has to, as if Lewis with his wide, pretty eyes and his perfect mouth and his ridiculous pose, and all the promise that little tableau offers, leave any room for coherent thought.

‘Nico.’

Lewis sets to work methodically, his hands working without visual direction, because he never once stops looking at him, not even when he fits his mouth over him, a strong and confident gaze filtered through his eyelashes. And that’s too much, the sensations combined with the visual, so much so that it blurs his vision and whites out his mind. Nico closes his eyes and lets his head fall back, focussing on breathing, and staying silent, as his imagination builds up the scene again on the screen at the back of his eyelids. He lets himself feel.

His mouth on Nico’s cock is the only point of contact between their bodies that Nico can really feel, the heat of Lewis’ body elsewhere confined by layers of insulation, the rest of it a faint impression in comparison. Lewis is good at it, too, measuring his angles of attack and reading his reactions off his body, adjusting his technique as he gathers the necessary information, until his go at it is steadily moving up the ranks of best blowjob given by people Nico’s not married to.

Nico risks opening his eyes again, the initial unassuming view of the ceiling helping to draw him back from the edge somewhat, and watches Lewis work. Lewis stills, as though he can feel Nico watching him again, and he momentarily stills and raises his head. And, holy god, the image of that mouth stretched around him, the base of his cock emerging from between Lewis’ lips, the bottom one, drawn into a pout against him due to the angle, concealed from his view, nearly finishes him off right then. He scrabbles for purchase, for leverage, and finds it in Lewis’ hair, and firmly manoeuvers his head back down.

Lewis follows his directions without resistance, casually giving up the initiative and letting Nico set the pace now, as he moves up and down the length of him to a rhythm that comes to Nico by flashes of inspiration, and it doesn’t take long, like this, before orgasm catches up with him and he’s coming, his come pooling in Lewis’ mouth until the workings of his throat swallow it off, his hands falling away again. 

Lewis sits back, easily leveraging himself into a crouch balanced on the balls of his feet, one hand brushing across his mouth and the other laid on his leg, before he pushes up and rises. ‘Remember,’ he says. He steals a bottle of water and drinks, unconcerned, as if he was never on his knees sucking him off. ‘All that thinking is doing you no good.’

Nico makes himself presentable again, and nods, both sets of movements equally mechanical. It feels as if someone found his reset button and rebooted his mind, but like the process is still in progress, like not all of his faculties are back online yet.

‘I’ll see you out on track,’ Lewis says, and with that, unlocks the door and lets himself out.


End file.
